Anything You Need
by Courtney Kathrys
Summary: Sequal to Anything You Want. Before Harry can make with peace with the closest woman he has to a mother, he needs to seek forgiveness from the one who survived. Do not read until you’ve completed Anything You Want.


Name: Courtney Kathrys  
  
Title: Anything You Need  
  
E-mail: Faeriedeath@hotmail.com  
  
Summery: Before Harry can make with peace with the closest woman he has to a mother, he needs to seek forgiveness from the one who survived. Do not read until you've completed "Anything You Want."  
  
Notes: This does contain sexual situations, though not nearly as graphic and detailed as some of my other works have been. This one actually requires an imagination.  
  
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters are by JK Rowling. I only own the plot.  
  
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=  
  
Memories drive Harry from Wales. He cannot bear to be there so soon, but he cannot bear to abandon all his reserve and retreat to Italy. So he finds himself in France, where the challenge is more dangerous, but easier. Harry has always wanted danger and ease over safety and hardship. He knows that before he can see the aged Mrs. Weasley, he needs to make peace with the estrangement from her loins. To know that if he can be forgiven by her, then maybe he can forgive himself.  
  
Her house is easy to find, her late husband is well known. For a moment he just watches her in the garden. She doesn't look happy, and he knows that it isn't because she's a widow as so may women were these days. She has always been unhappy, she has just learned to coincide with it. She doesn't look up from her daisies, but he knows that she sees him. He can tell by the way her shoulders tense slightly beneath her light silk robes, and the way she cuts the stem of the flower too short.  
  
She doesn't greet him, and he her. They had moved past greetings years ago. So he sits beside her as she silently prunes the flowers, waiting for something though he knows not what. She finishes, taking longer than strictly necessary, and the both know that and accept it without comment. She stands and walks to the house, her silent command to follow obeyed.  
  
The house is opulent, tasteful and elegant and he knows she hates the house nearly as much as she hates France. She was masochistic that way, wanting to surround herself with things she abhorred in order to make her unhappiness warranted. She pours herself a glass of white wine, leaving the bottle opened on the counter beside the wine glasses. He pours himself a glass, taking her up on her invitation.  
  
They sip in silence, and he continues to wait. She has the right to speak first, and they both know that, and so she is choosing her words wisely.  
  
"She writes me daily, you know. Every day for seven years she has sent a letter faithfully with one owl or another. I've never written back, and I burn the letter once I've memorized it."  
  
He knows she is referring to the woman they have both abandoned. He has never received a letter. Probably for the best, since he knows he does not have the strength to burn the contents as she does. He knows it is his turn now, to continue. H knows that with her choice of opening she intends to make it excruciating for him. He won't ask how the older lady is faring; he won't admit he never received an owl, although they both know she knows he hasn't. He cuts to the chase, not wanting to play games today.  
  
"Forgive me."  
  
"What ever for?"  
  
He curses himself for his reckless habit of taking the easy and dangerous route. She wanted to play games, she wanted him to squirm, and she wanted for once to hold power over him.  
  
"You've done no wrong to me, Harry, so why beg for my forgiveness?"  
  
He hears the slight emphasis on the words wrong, me and my. He knows her meaning.  
  
"Did you want to die as well?"  
  
He has her there for a moment, and she is quiet while she sips her wine. Her hair is still as blood red as he remembers it being. So much darker than all the other family members.  
  
"I'd be better off that way. She would as well, you know. She'd be more at peace with me being dead then estranged."  
  
"She'd still have to deal with Percy."  
  
"She'll always be dealing with Percy, long after he finally dies as well."  
  
"I won't kill you."  
  
"Is that what you want to be forgiven for?"  
  
"Yes."  
They hardly move throughout the exchange. Her hands are steady as she sloshes the wine in the glass. His sits on the counter only half finished. The inflections of their voice remain neutral, casual, and flippant. They could be talking about the weather as far as body language went.  
  
They stay quiet for a long moment, waiting for her reply to his request. She takes her time; enjoying spending the time she has accumulated over the years.  
  
"Do you know why I loved you as a child, Harry?"  
  
"Because you were expected to and because I made you unhappy."  
  
He wasn't surprised at the tiny smile which crossed her face, or the fact that he knew her motivations so well didn't come as a surprise in the least.  
  
"If I love unhappiness, Harry, and still being alive makes me unhappy, why on earth should I forgive you for giving me what I love?"  
  
She had him there, and he had never considered that part. The fact that Ginny was ecstatically pleased with her place since she was so devastatingly unhappy with it. She laughed, low, sarcastic.  
  
"You were always so selfish Harry, did you know that? You wrapped yourself in your righteous anger, knowing the others would care and would follow, and you begged them not to and the more you begged the more they pleaded. You could have thrown off that anger so quickly and everything could have been much different. But you never liked to be safe if it meant going the hard way. You wanted it easy, and angry, and dangerous."  
  
She was right, and he knew it. He had brewed over that during his entire stay in Italy. He was not shocked that Ginny knew this, or that she touched upon so delicate a subject. Danger and ease had no place in her safe and difficult life.  
  
"Because it makes you happy."  
  
He saw her harden with his words. Her hand gripped the wine stem a little tighter, the knuckles turned a shade paler. When she looked at him, her cinnamon eyes were hard.  
  
"Touché."  
  
Harry sighed inwardly, annoyed that he was getting nowhere with her. She wasn't making this whole process any simpler.  
  
"Look, just tell me what it is you want."  
  
Her hardened demeanor relaxed, and she leaned her hair back and laughed. The sound was deep and rich and painful. When she turned to him her face was indescribable with its hardened mirth.  
  
"Oh Harry, not everything is so simple and black and white. Not everything can be dealt with so easily."  
  
"Yes it can. What do you want?"  
  
So she smirked. A knife slice on her pale face.  
  
"If that's how you want to play it my dear. What I want, Harry... is for this to be as difficult as possible. I want you to work at it. I want nothing of this to be simple and easy. I want it the hard way."  
  
And in her words he knew exactly what she meant. Every word, every nuance, every inflection that she placed on her words were crystal clear to him. It was the worst she ever could have asked. The hardest thing he'd ever had to do.  
  
At first he just stared at her. At the ordinary and subtle glint in her spice tinted eyes. Then he nodded. Two quick head jerks in quick succession. She made no movement, and he knew every move was to be made entirely by him.  
  
When his hands grabbed her waist she stared at him. When he crushed his mouth to hers she kept her eyes open as she kisses back. When he shoved everything off the countertop she merely watched as the wine glasses shattered and the bottle broke into millions of wine drenched shards of glass. When he shoved her back onto the counter she complied, almost bored. She kept her eyes open and starring at him the entire time they shagged.  
  
He tried to picture her as other women lying in his arms. Her red hair turned to blonde and Lavender was beneath him. Then he heard her voice in his ear. "Ginny."  
  
The blonde receded and it was her red hair and her smirking eyes, the only girl he knew of to say her own name during the throes of passion. Even if just to remind him that it was her he was on top of. He cleared his mind again. Her eyes became dark and almond shaped. The sparkle that was distinctly Cho appeared. He relaxed. "Ginny."  
  
He was face to face with her mouth open in laughter. He growled and moved furiously. Her lips became full and soft and pale pink on porcelain skin. Fleur's soft French began to fill his ears. The pink lips parted as she spoke to him in low whispers. "Ginny."  
  
Her hands gripped his shoulders and the freckles faded back in and it was her moving under him once more. Her fingers were rough in his back and he knew she knew that he was thinking of all the other women he knew. Her pale freckled arms grew darker and darker until Angelina's mocha skin slid beneath him. Angelina's nails curled into his back and he arched further into her. She screamed out "Ginny."  
  
By now Harry was fully frustrated at the red hair and brown eyes and smirking lips and freckled skin which laughed at his tortured face. She was making it real for him. Forcing him to see that he wasn't running away from this, and that she wouldn't let him go out easy. So he closed his eyes and he answered her back with his own "Ginny."  
  
He saw her smile, and her auburn eyebrows raise and she replied with him by adding her own "Harry."  
  
It was hearing his own name spill from her lips which sent him over and he became more lost and aggrieved with each thrust. So he continued moaning her name, and she remained inserting his until at last they tumbled over together to the sounds of their own names.  
  
He watched her afterwards; cleaning up her kitchen in the buff, mending her ripped robes. Her long hair provided a make shift barrier of her skin, as it flowed down and around her waist in a haze of blood tinted tresses. She wasn't beautiful. But she was cold and she was dangerous. And he had always had a passion for danger.  
  
"Forgive me."  
  
She looked up at him, and she smiled. This time she was devoid of any sarcasm or wit or malice. This time she was genuine.  
  
"Let me see her first, Harry, and all debts will be repaid."  
  
So he nodded, how could he refuse her the chance of seeing her Mother? She was only postponing his resolve, making it that more difficult to accomplish. But then again she always liked things to be difficult.  
  
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 


End file.
